Lines
by Cascade Waters
Summary: All kinds of lines, and always someone who finds a way to cross all of them.  Spoilers for the end of season 1.  WARNING: Contains the non-sexual spanking of an adult.  Don't like, don't read.


Lines

By firechild

Rated T

Disclaimer: Yeah, not mine. Too bad—I'd take everything but the mustache.

Warnings: Um, really?

A/N: Written for the Blue Bloods write-off challenge between supergirl and me.

Credits: This has not been betaed but anyone other than me, but I did have the expert civilian consultation of my gwathel's gwathel, Emma, who, with my thanks for her help and time and patience, is now in the story. Also, as always, thanks to supergirl for a fun challenge and lots of encouragement. It feels good to finish something!

It was the little stuff—odd looks here and there, tired eyes skittering away from his, an overheard offer from Erin to fetch some painkillers or a heating pad, questions he himself hadn't thought to ask because he really shouldn't have had to, a cab driving down a street where everyone owned at least one car—that bothered Frank Reagan now. With the mystery of Joe's death solved and a storied faction of wrong cops sorted, he supposed that it was only natural that his mind was going down paths that it hadn't had the time or energy to travel before. But why did those paths always have to lead back to his own house?

Something was bothering his baby.

Something besides the Blue Templar, besides finding closure for Joe and for himself. And really, Jamie had held on to his secrets for so long because, he claimed, he'd thought that maybe Joe had meant for the younger brother to finish what the elder had started. But that didn't make sense to Frank; when Joe died, Jamie had still been in law school, headed toward pinstripe suits and corner offices. It was possible that Joe had suspected that Jamie might change directions and go for the blue—Frank's monkey had always had a way of seeing in people what no one else had—but he couldn't have been sure, and Joe wouldn't have wanted Jamie anywhere near the setup that had cost him his own life. Frank didn't doubt for a second that Jamie had been telling the truth about feeling that way, but was the grieving rookie really being eaten away by that? Something… something was missing. Frank just wasn't sure what that something was, yet, and that bothered him quite a bit. He was a seasoned investigator, and a seasoned father, and he had a carefully nurtured reputation in the family not just for having 'hands of stone,' but for knowing most everything, or at least enough to make it seem that he did. It galled him that he had been so blind to Joe's situation, and he could only hope, for all of their sakes, that Jamie wasn't in such danger.

A week after the demise of the Blue Templar, Frank got another little clue to the mystery of Jamie. He was sitting at his desk, in his office, checking over some requisitions forms and grumbling in his head about the indignity of giving in to the need for reading glasses, when the phone rang, startling him. It took him a few seconds to recall that his regular admin was off for a wedding in Ohio, but he would have expected better from her temporary replacement. When the ringing continued, he sighed and picked up the extension, letting some of the sharpness stay in his voice as he asked why he was being disturbed, only to hear the unruffled temp tell him that he had a caller asking for him by name in reference to something about Joseph Reagan's estate. Frank felt a wave of confusion, but steeled himself and took the call.

"Yeah, hello, is this a Mr, uh, Francis Reagan?"

"Actually, this is a Commissioner Francis Reagan. I was told that this call pertained to the estate of my son, Joseph Reagan. I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are."

"Oh. Oh! Sorry, Mis—er, Commissioner, I'm just going by the title information here. This is Manuel Triana, at August Snape." As if that explained everything.

"Uh, Mr. Triana, I apologize, but I still have no idea who you are or why you're calling me at this number."

A pause. "Oh, sorry, I guess maybe they didn't tell you where they were taking it. I'm just calling to let you know that the car will be ready in about a week. I knew you'd be pleased to know that we're ahead of schedule. Some of the parts were kinda hard to locate, but it's just like I told your man—all original, all specific to the model. We'll have you fixed up showroom-shape in no time." And the man did sound really pleased to deliver what was undoubtedly good news… for someone. For Frank, it was like dunking one of Sean's grow-a-monster toys into lukewarm water—this sinking, spiky feeling settled into his gut and started to expand.

"I'm, uh, glad to hear it, Mr. Triana. Just to be clear, could you remind me of the exact terms of our agreement? I'm sure you can see that I didn't get to be the police commissioner without keeping an eye on expenses."

The mechanic was more than happy to take the time to run down an itemized list—a very long itemized list—of parts, labor, warranties, and suggested maintenance plans for repairing one wrecked 1966 Chevelle. He was so helpful, in fact, that Frank decided to drop by this shop and see for himself. In twenty-five minutes, he'd found August Snape Foreign and Domestic Auto Care; two minutes after that, he was assuring himself that he was not, in fact, having a transient ischemic attack or anything else that might bring on hallucinations like the mess that was his sons' car; two and a half minutes after that, he was back on the road, ignoring his driver's wary looks and putting in a call to his son's training officer to check on Jamie's whereabouts, only to learn that Renzulli was out sick and that one of the civilian aides had given his youngest a ride when his shift had ended.

The driver didn't question the commissioner's order to take him home in the middle of the workday. The driver didn't comment when his boss rolled up his shirtsleeves and left his suit coat in the car. The driver was just glad that he wasn't on the receiving end of what his son would describe as an 'epic fit-and-shan look.'

Frank Reagan, the commissioner, was just along for the ride when Frank Reagan, the father, stormed into his own house, realizing quickly that he was neither the first angry Reagan there, nor, evidently, the only one having an epic fit-and-shan moment. He got only as far as the area between the kitchen and the foot of the staircase before he spotted Danny, who had entered the house seconds before Frank from a different direction, and he watched as his eldest made a beeline for his youngest, gathered handfuls of the uniform shirt, walked Jamie backward, and then lifted the startled boy clean off of his feet and pinned him against the wall. Frank had to give Danny credit—his most temperamental, hotheaded child, his tiger, did not actually slam his brother against the wall, but Jamie wasn't getting down until Danny was good and ready for him to.

Jamie was sputtering, Danny was obviously beyond livid, and Frank simply stood behind Danny's right shoulder, making no move to break up the encounter. He tried to talk to Danny, who was growling and snarling about 'killing' Jamie himself and saving them all from a stroke, but the detective was too angry to respond to his father. Only when Jamie piquishly insisted on knowing what had 'set Danny off this time' did the older brother focus and respond.

"What set me off? You wanna know what set me off? How about you and your little secrets, huh? How about how you're trying to get yourself killed, huh? 'Cause, you know, I can take care of that for you, no charge; you don't need dirty cops or the FBI for that. Don't you dare give me that blank look! What, one dead cop isn't enough for this family? That plot didn't look big enough to you? You wanna add one more?"

Jamie looked at Frank, appealing, but his father cut off whatever the boy was planning to say. "Oh, no; don't you even think of asking me to get you out of this, little boy. You might want to be glad that your brother got to you before I did, not that it's going to make all that much difference in the end."

Both of his sons were so surprised at his blatant refusal to intervene in a situation that was usually strictly forbidden that they both looked at him in shock for a moment. Francis Reagan was not big on ignoring the crossing of lines, especially ones he'd drawn within his own household. Then Danny turned back to glare at Jamie, but he spoke to his father. "I got a really confusing and really interesting call today from Claire Kendall, one of the civilian aides who remembers me from the 12. She wanted to know if Officer Reagan here needed a ride home today, seeing as how his TO was out sick. Took me five minutes to backtrack enough to get her to tell me why Mr Chevelle here would need a ride." He had to stop for a breath. "You see this look on his face, the wide eyes all innocent and confused? Makes me wonder how much other stupid stuff he's gotten away with over the years. How many times we've almost had to figure out how to tell Erin and Linda, how to tell Nikki and my boys that Uncle Jamie won't be coming to any more Sunday dinners or Christmas pageants or first communions." He ground his jaw for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Wanna guess what else he's been hiding here, Dad? Wanna ask him why hasn't been around much this week?"

"Well, I would, but as it happens, I don't think I need to."

Frank's tone was low and calm… and, to anyone who knew him, deadly. Either Danny didn't catch what his father said, or he was just too wound up to care. "They messed with his brakes, Dad. The freaking Blue Templar decided that Jamie here was an inconvenience, so they cut his brake line. They wanted him dead, and he knew it."

So he'd been wrong about not needing to know. "And now it makes sense. I saw the car."

His elder son didn't register that comment right away; Jamie went a little pale, but he was busy staring down at his brother, incredulity creeping into his face. "Oh, man, you really can't stand me, can you? You're mad at _me_ because someone cut my brakes?"

"No, moron," Danny all but exploded, "because someone tampered with your brakes, someone tried to KILL you, and you didn't tell us! You should have told us as soon as, the _minute_ that, you realized that your car had been messed with! You should have called Dad, or me, or Grandpa, or Erin, or _someone_, and we'd have taken care of you. We'd have made sure that you were safe and got where—whaddyou mean, you saw the car?"

Danny changed directions so fast and so seamlessly, his head whipping around (though his grip on his brother never wavered,) that Jamie looked a bit disoriented for a second. Frank might have been amused, but Danny had just given him some information that he hadn't realized he was still missing—a reason for the most careful driver he'd ever taught to wreck a beloved classic car-and his fury had just deepened to a level that had only once before been directed at one of his own children. "I mean just what I said, Daniel."

Danny looked a little confused. "I know I'm not a car guy, but I didn't think you could see a brake line without, like, getting under the car or something."

Frank gave a short, angled nod. "You're right, you can't. But a completely crumpled front end is pretty easy to spot."

And he could tell that Danny hadn't been expecting that, though how the detective thought that a driver would know about a cut brake line without driving (and almost inevitably wrecking) the car, Frank didn't know. Nor did he particularly care. Danny's lack of enthusiasm for auto mechanics had never bothered Frank, any more than Joe's lack of desire to enlist. Danny was obviously bothered, though, by still not having all of the information. He turned his glare back on his brother, who finally had the good sense to shrink a bit; Danny came to a decision, lowered Jamie to his feet, pulled and turned him, and barked, "Upstairs. Now."

Frank would have followed them apace, but Henry's voice from behind him stopped him. "When that boy does it, he really does it, doesn't he?" He sounded a little amused, and Frank rounded on his father, only to wince inwardly as he recognized a distinctly unamused version of his own expression, a version he'd seen a few times and lived to regret. "Would you care to join us? It's not like you won't know what's happening anyway, and by rights, he disrespected all of us."

Henry glanced up the stairs and nodded once. "Thank you, Francis, I believe I will." Frank went up the stairs with his father just behind him, limping and muttering under his breath about wishing that he had his old slapjack handy, though they both knew that he'd never use one on any of the kids.

When the two older men got upstairs, Frank made a quick detour and then led the way to Jamie's old bedroom, where they found his remaining sons in a strange but predictable pose—Jamie over Danny's knee, struggling futilely against his still-fastened uniform pants binding his legs while his brother landed smack after smack over gray-blue jockey shorts that protected only his modesty. Danny didn't even pause in his onslaught as he looked up at the older men. "Dad, I swear, you can paddle me later for this, but I just couldn't toe that line this time."

Frank inclined his head; it was true that one of his house rules stated that, if there were any smacks to be handed out to his children, they would come from himself or Mary or one of the grandparents, but just now he wasn't in the mood to enforce that one. Instead, he took up a station a few feet from Jamie and slipped his hands into his pockets, aware that Henry had sidled the other direction and was leaning against the wall next to the door, arms folded over his chest. Frank trusted Danny with his brother, but he did recognize Danny's anger and he watched every swat, every reaction, planning to intervene sooner or later. As long as Danny had himself under control, though, Frank was perfectly content to let him warm up his brother for the main event.

Too bad for Jamie—the rookie cop saw his father standing so near, and he stopped sputtering and swearing at Danny long enough to reach out with one hand and plead with his father for rescue. Frank just narrowed his eyes at his youngest, waiting until Jamie looked close to tears and Danny's hand was a dark cherry. Then Frank stepped in, pleased when just Danny's name stayed the smacking hand, showing that Danny was in control of himself. Danny nodded, thin-lipped, obviously not satisfied with Jamie's punishment but respecting their father's authority. He levered his brother back to his feet, then stood up himself, gripping his brother's bicep. Jamie tried to shake loose from him, mad and hurt and indignant, but Danny was stronger and more determined; he looked up at Frank and was surprised to see his father coming over and sitting down on the edge of the bed where Danny had just been. Frank reached up for Jamie's arm and Danny passed his brother on to his dad, thinking that the kid was gonna get some lap time.

And he did. Just not the nice kind.

Frank wasted no time pulling his son back down to lay across his lap, ignoring the renewed struggles as he tugged down the jockeys to meet the pants. Jamie froze at first, in shock, and then started to wiggle and protest, which Frank stopped with one well-placed swat to the crest of the dark pink bottom. He'd gone for the old paddle he'd kept under the false bottom of his sock drawer (such measures having been necessary with so much blue blood and so many red bottoms in his house—it wasn't often that he'd needed anything other than his hand, but there were occasions that called for more) and he pulled it out of the back of his waistband, vaguely amused as he caught Danny's expression of mingled horror, empathy, and satisfaction. It was nice to know that he could still properly scare his kids.

Frank set the paddle on the bed—inches from Jamie's head—and rested his right hand on the warm bottom. "Why are we here, Jamison?"

Jamie was a smart young man, so maybe it was all the blood rushing from his head to his other end, or maybe it was the embarrassment of the situation, or maybe it was the horror at the sight of the dreaded paddle, or maybe it was his own guilty conscience kicking him when he was literally down, but his response would have gotten him at least a couple of 'Hail Marys' from confession; just at the moment, though, it got him three swats to each side, and he barely managed to stifle a cry. Frank added another pair of swats and then repeated the question.

"Bec-*_huff_*-because I didn't tell you."

Frank laid down just one swat, covering the general center of Jamie's bottom, and said, "Because you didn't tell us what?"

Jamie was an adult, a law school grad, an armed police officer, and he was trying, he really was, but he was already having trouble speaking levelly, and he was mightily afraid that if this kept up, which he was mightily sure it would, or the paddle came in to play, which he was fairly sure would, he wouldn't be able to keep his composure. Danny already thought he was weak and a liability; that was all Jamie needed, to break down in front of the commissioner and Danny and his grandfather, whose liniment Jamie could smell. But he also knew how this worked, and he knew that as long as he talked and made it good, he'd get a little bit of a breather, which was better than nothing, so he dug down and made an effort.

"I di-*_ahem_* I didn't tell you that my brakes were messed up." Not good enough; Frank swatted him again, this time twice on the same spot, over the center. Jamie blew out a breath and tried again. "I didn't tell you that someone had messed with my brakes. But I didn't know until-!"

"I'm aware of that, son. But then you were in the car, and they didn't work, and then you knew; did you call anyone then? Anyone at all?"

Jamie shook his head; his father swatted him once and demanded a verbal answer, and he managed a, "No, sir."

"I see. And why not?"

"It… it just all happened so fast, and I didn't know what to do, and… and I didn't know who to call!" Jamie almost wailed the last part.

"Whaddya mean, you didn't know who to call?" Danny demanded, then subsided at his father's quelling look.

"Your brother asks a very good question, Jamison: what do you mean, you didn't know who to call?"

"I was… I was scared! And it was all happening so fast, and… and I didn't know what to do! I didn't know who to call—emergency dispatch couldn't have helped me, you had too much to worry about already, and I knew Danny'd just be mad at me, and… and…" He trailed off in frustration.

"Hey, what am I—chopped liver?" Henry spoke up, then immediately added, "And do not give me that 'shut your mouth' look, Francis; you and I can always have our own conversation later."

"I didn't… I couldn't… I needed to handle it! I had to handle it myself! I didn't mean to make anybody mad, I just…" Jamie was perilously close to tears, and the Reagan men were perilously close to the bottom line. Danny looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't decide whether or not to go through with it; his brother's statement had hit him in the gut, partially because he couldn't honestly deny the truth of it, and he was a little ashamed to think that he had let his misgivings about his brother being on the job affect Jamie's confidence in their relationship (such as it was) and in Danny's willingness to help him.

Frank was thinking something similar about channeling all of his emotions toward getting justice for Joe and leaving Jamie feeling like he couldn't go to his father, especially in times of danger. They would have to work on that—he would have to work on that. Jamie had been a fairly independent kid, mostly because he'd had to be, but he'd also always been more emotionally responsive than any of the other men in the family. His kids would always be different people and their family would never be perfect, but Frank loved his children more than breathing, and he would not accept any one of them being in danger and alone. He'd lost one that way, he wouldn't let it happen again.

With that thought, as much as he wanted this to be over, as much as he wanted Jamie reassured in a rare embrace, Frank gave Jamie five sharp swats, making him jump in surprise and pain, before saying, "You did not need to handle it alone. You did not need to handle the Blue Templar, or the FBI, or the truth about your brother's death, alone. Listen to me, Jamison Kai—are you listening? Good, because I want you to hear this and remember it. There is a difference between being an adult who can make decisions and being a lone wolf, and there's a difference between being a good cop and being a dragon with a badge. We can talk later about this notion that Joe left this mess for you to risk your life cleaning up, but now we need to finish discussing your lack of trust in us. I want you to tell me why you didn't tell any of us about your brakes and about the wreck after the fact. You could have been seriously injured in a number of ways and not have known it. Not only that, but in case it hasn't occurred to you yet, son, you are a police officer, and tampering with your brakes is attempted capital murder. In exactly what reality did you imagine that I would not need to know about that, as your father and your commissioner?"

Jamie had a hard time with that one, had to stop and start a few times, but his father saw his effort and gave him some time to work up a response. "I… didn't think it was… I was working for Joe, and…" He seemed to give up on what he was trying to say, wailing instead, "This wouldn't have happened to any of you!"

"But you can't know that, kid," Danny said gently after Frank was done swatting again, the detective's arms folded loosely across his chest as he leaned down to be a little closer to his brother's head. "They didn't land on tampering with your brakes and trying to off you 'cause you're cute and have big eyes. If you'd told us what was going on earlier, yeah, we might have been able to cut this off at the pass, but really, we can't be sure that they wouldn't have made you earlier, or made any one of us at any time if we'd been in your shoes. They made Joe, and you know how he could act. And what if it had been one of us, huh? How would you feel, finding out that this had happened to Dad or me and we hadn't said anything, we'd been in danger and hadn't even bothered to let anyone know? You're good in a crisis, kid, how would you like it if we hadn't trusted you?" Jamie dropped his head and started to cry at that thought, unclutching the blankets with one hand to cover his eyes. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Danny crouched close. "Did you really think it'd feel any different for us?" When Jamie gave a small nod, Danny looked away in pain and then stood, meeting his father's eyes and getting a nod of approval.

Frank, wanting to encourage the tears and the raw honesty, gave Jamie about twelve swats at something less than his previous strength, then let the boy cry for a minute before asking Jamie to walk them through what had happened that night. Jamie had a hard time complying, but he did as he'd been told, not seeing the horrified looks his three protectors exchanged when he tonelessly admitted that, had it not been for the grace of God, he'd have been creamed in a head-on, and if not for an equally graced retaining wall, he'd have plunged into the unforgiving East River. They were all tired by that time, ready for this to be over, but Frank wasn't done yet. He added another dozen medium swats (his medium being formidable itself) before speaking again.

"Okay, Jamie, one more. You can do it. I need you to tell me why you lied about the accident."

Jamie stiffened and shook his head emphatically. His father knew what he was trying to say, and this time he dialed up the force and piled three on each undercurve. "Yes, you did lie, and you're doing it again now. You know that I have never accepted dishonesty from you; what makes you think it would be okay now?"

Jamie was determined to defend himself, and he set up a weak but enthusiastic squirm as he sputtered that he didn't lie, trying to talk around more hard swats as he insisted that he hadn't told anyone anything that wasn't true.

"Oh, yes, you did lie, Jamison Kai! I stood behind your sister and heard you lie to her when she asked why you were sore and stiff! You told her that you had just had 'one of those weeks.' You deliberately led her, and the rest of us, to believe that nothing out of the ordinary had happened; that's called a lie of omission, as you well know. Would you like me to spell it for you?" He laid a hand firmly on the crimson bottom, not budging it when Jamie whimpered and writhed, shaking his head. He'd had things 'spelled' for him before, and he'd never forgotten any of those terms or their definitions, but he was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to take this one, not with his father's sudden backshift in mood.

"We'll have to see about that. You had a plethora of opportunities to mention that you'd been involved in an accident; yes, we'd have been concerned and we'd have fussed over you, but that's your right and ours as Reagans. I don't care what you think I have going on—you let me worry about me; if one of my children is hurt, I need to know! I _get_ to know! And you were hurt in that wreck, even if the adrenaline masked it at first. Not only that, but you went on tours, you went with us to bust the Blue Templar, when you were injured and could have had a loss of function! Head and spinal injuries don't always stand up and raise their hands right after an incident. You crossed a line, Officer Jamison Kai Reagan, as a cop and as family, and it's a line that I can't ignore. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Jamie sucked in a couple of breaths and then wailed, "You trusted me! You gave me Joe's car, your car! I didn't want you to be disappointed in me for wrecking it!"

He didn't see Danny throw up his hands and turn around in aggravation, or Henry's eyes widen and his hands go unconsciously to his belt buckle, or Frank narrow his eyes and set his jaw and pick up the paddle. But he felt the swat that came with each word: "You are more important than any car! You are precious, Jamison Kai! Do you understand?" Jamie was sobbing uncontrollably now, unable to stop the sounds that started with a grunt at the first fall of the paddle and escalated into full-bodied cries. Frank had to steel himself to apply the last hard swats—one to the top, which had Jamie springing out straight and then arching, one to the middle, and four to the undercurve and the point that bore the most weight against a chair; Jamie nearly launched off of Frank's lap with the first two of those, and then he went limp and just sobbed breathlessly.

When it was done, Frank sighed painfully, shook his head, and chucked the paddle without paying attention to where it went. Danny sprang and caught it, then passed it to Henry, getting rid of the despised object as quickly as possible. The three older men just held their silence for several minutes, Frank massaging Jamie's neck as the boy purged himself, it seemed, for all of them. That idea shamed him, and he vowed that they would work on that as a family. He hadn't wept since a few hours after Joe's death, and something in Jamie's sobs made him want to break down right here. He didn't, but he wouldn't let himself shy away from the feeling.

When Jamie's sobs started to dial down, Frank looked down at his son's form and made a decision; he nodded to Danny and then to Jamie's shoes, and Danny rushed to kneel and remove them. Frank pointed to the pants, and Danny reached under and unbuckled the belt, unfastened the trousers, and slid them off, followed, after a look from Frank, by the jockey shorts. When Frank gently stood Jamie up, the uniform shirt fell low enough to cover him—not that it really mattered, since they all had the same parts and all three of the older men had changed Jamie's diapers—and Frank winced in sympathy, or, well, empathy if he was honest, when Jamie shuddered at the brush of polyester against his oversensitive backside. Frank lifted Jamie's chin and studied the young face for a moment, and then pulled Jamie into his arms, holding him like he hadn't in… Frank wasn't sure how long. Jamie got handfuls of Frank's shirt back, and that was fine with his father. Frank squeezed his boy and then ran his hands over the trembling back, leaving one arm to brace low and raising the other hand to go up through the short, soft hair and cradle Jamie's skull. He murmured into the boy's ear, "I've already lost Joseph. What on Earth makes you think I could survive losing you, too?" Jamie didn't answer, but he did burrow into his father.

They stayed like that for a good while before Frank gave in to Danny's hovering and gently turned Jamie into his brother's embrace. Danny had so rarely hugged Jamie that the younger brother didn't have an automatic spot where he knew he fit, so Danny cradled his skull and helped him find one. The older brother was content just to stand in silence for awhile, and then he debated to himself before pulling back a little, his hand still cupping the base of Jamie's head, looked at his brother, and said, "Hey. Hey! Yeah, you. Do us all a favor and don't do this again, huh? It ain't exactly my idea of a fun afternoon. And I don't know how I'm gonna explain this to Jackie and my captain. I can't exactly call in and say I need an hour of manhandling time." Jamie didn't laugh, didn't smile, exactly, but he cupped his brother's wrist and nodded. Danny leaned in and kissed him on the forehead.

Then Frank passed the boy to Henry, and Jamie tensed, uncertain. Henry took him by the back of the neck and pulled Jamie's head close, then whispered something into the young ear that made the boy whimper and squirm in desperate distress. Henry let him for a moment, then whispered something else, and Jamie stilled, then nodded a little bit, and Henry gathered his youngest grandchild close to him for a few minutes.

They put Jamie to bed, telling him that he'd be staying there until his father said otherwise, and then the three emotionally spent older men trudged down the stairs. Danny went back to work, Erin stopped by to retrieve a dish, Henry went to the youth center for a meeting, and Frank Reagan was left pretending to do paperwork while keeping an ear open for his most puzzling child. He vowed then that no one would ever be able to so easily unravel part of the knit of his family, because the lines of communication and trust would stay open if he had to stand and hold them himself.


End file.
